


the details in the fabric

by jessicamiriamdrew



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, M/M, McChekov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-19 06:42:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/880643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessicamiriamdrew/pseuds/jessicamiriamdrew
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chekov is a little tired of McCoy's anger issues. The solution, of course, is to convince McCoy to start knitting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the details in the fabric

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Daiya_Darko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daiya_Darko/gifts).



> C'mon, Chekov is totally someone who has been knitting and spinning since he was 5. Daiya wanted me to write McChekov fluff and fluff almost always turns into knitting fic for me.

It wasn’t that Chekov didn’t enjoy McCoy’s outbursts--because, well, sometimes those led to very good nights--but he was tired of coming back to their quarters to find dents in the wall and medical journals torn to shreds.

Sometimes the anger was productive, leading to McCoy coming up with new hyposprays for the various alien plagues they encountered on their travels.

But...tonight was not one of those nights. Chekov wasn’t sure what had happened to McCoy; he’d been on shift and navigating had taken all of his attention as they made their way through a particularly dense cluster of asteroids in this sector. There hadn’t been any messages on his PADD to alert him of some sort of medbay emergency.

That brought him to the scene of McCoy scowling while he tore up what Chekov was pretty sure was a magazine McCoy had been particularly excited to find at an outpost.

He stood just inside their quarters and sighed. “Are you going to talk about what’s wrong or are you going to keep destroying that?”

McCoy huffed and and did, at least, stop tearing at the magazine. Chekov looked at how his fingers were still shaking and thought carefully. He knew McCoy shouldn’t be around patients when he was like this, if he could help it--but that energy had to go to something...

“I’m going to teach you to knit,” Chekov said decisively. He looked at McCoy quickly enough to see the look of incredulity on his face before it turned into clear disdain.

“Why would I learn to knit when I could get anything I wanted from a replicator?” McCoy said. Chekov shuddered internally at the memory of the terrible, scratchy, hat McCoy insisted on wearing on planets with colder climates. 

Chekov sighed. “Says the man who makes cookies from scratch every year for my birthday.” He knew they were from scratch; there were some parts of it the replicator could never master. (Cookies made by a replicator were perfect. Cookies made by hand had flaws and tasted better.)

“Kid--I hate to disappoint you--” McCoy started to say, with his southern accent suddenly twanging up like it always did when he got defensive.

Rolling his eyes, Chekov sat down on the ground next to McCoy and pushed away shreds of the magazine. “ _Leonard_ ,” he said, enunciating carefully, “you do know I am the youngest person on this crew for a reason and that’s because I’m very smart. Smart enough to know when cookies were made by hand, at least.” He pressed his lips to McCoy’s cheek chastely. “But, okay, we can preserve your--machismo?--about baking if you prefer.” He leaned against McCoy and settled into him. McCoy wrapped an arm around him and Chekov grabbed his other hand, already imagining the yarn wrapped around his fingers.

“How about,” he said, “I let you replicate the yarn. It won’t be as good, but we can pick some up at the next outpost. By then you’ll _want_ more yarn.”

“They still make yarn in the old fashioned way? Sheep and shearing?” McCoy squeezed Chekov’s hand lightly but Chekov wasn’t sure McCoy was actually joking. He had trouble figuring him out sometimes, like the age difference and the second language barrier made the nuances too difficult to pull apart.

He furrowed his brow, wondering if it had been localized to his area of Russia, if the rest of the world had moved on to synthetic natural fibers. “They do! In Russia, and I remember seeing a yarn shop in San Francisco. There would be no need for a shop if it were just replicators.” He remembered that now--it had been exam week and he’d wanted to stop inside but had forced himself back to his dorm room to study.

McCoy chuckled and turned to kiss Chekov. “I wasn’t doubting you, Pasha.” McCoy’s face softened and Chekov was reminded of why he’d been so attracted to McCoy in the first place. He knew pieces of the story now, about the divorce and Joanna and why McCoy did his best to stay closed off to everyone.

Chekov tried to ignore the twist of happiness in his stomach at the use of his diminutive but Leonard was the only one on the ship who was allowed to call him that. He loved it everytime it happened. (Kirk tried, once, in McCoy’s hearing and Kirk had issued Chekov a formal apology the next day on the bridge, and there was bruising around his eye.)

“So!” Chekov said. “Then you will let me teach you how to knit, yes?”

“It’ll really help with the anger, you think?” McCoy asked, eyes drifting downward to the torn pages of medical journal.

“Yes! And then you can knit for me!” Chekov’s mind was already flashing images of scarves with curling edges and hats with a row of dropped stitches. He would wear them _proudly_ and anyone who mocked them would find their replicators unable to produce knitwear except in puke green and the scratchiest yarn available.

McCoy laughed and pulled Chekov snuggly against him. “When’s the last time I denied you anything, kid?” 

“Doctor McCoy,” Chekov said as he tackled him, “I am _very_ glad to hear that.” Knitting could wait until later but the fact that he had McCoy pinned under him could not.


End file.
